A stick of sandalwood incense is burning next to me. The bowl in which it stands is full of ashes and unburned stems of innumerable sticks. My room always smells of sandalwood because a stick of incense is burning whenever I am here, and because the carpets on the floor and walls soak up the scent. I just realized that I have picked up this habit when I was a boy of about six or seven, when my uncle returned from his stint in the diplomatic service in India. Ever since, my room has always smelled of incense. This habit has become so entrenched that it took me nearly fifty years to remember its connection with my late uncle. If I were ever asked to come up with a smell I associated with him, it would undoubtedly be that of sandalwood.